


in a blameless way

by Nonymos, thefilthiestpiglet



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ass Lock, Blood, Cock Cages, Comics And Prose, Good Intentions, HYDRA Trash Party aftermath, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Past Rape/Non-con, Piercings, Steve and Bucky never met prior to CA:TWS, Winter Soldier Trauma Umbrella, hell's paved with those
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:48:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26992414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonymos/pseuds/Nonymos, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefilthiestpiglet/pseuds/thefilthiestpiglet
Summary: Steve drags the Soldier out of the river.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson
Comments: 185
Kudos: 399





	in a blameless way

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hey, readers! Welcome back, and please enjoy this free trash.
> 
> Heads up: in this fic, the images and mini-comics are integrated into the text, and carry fic-relevant imagery and dialogue. There are descriptions in the image alt texts and footnotes for those who find the art difficult to parse.

The water turns pink as it sluices over Steve’s body, carrying away the muddy scent of the Potomac along with much of his blood. It’s lukewarm, which right now feels like a miraculous luxury.

A thousand scratches and scrapes start stinging, and he inhales sharply when his bullet wounds feel the touch of water. He’s got two of them, in his thigh and stomach, haloed by enormous bruises. Good, solid shots; the Soldier’s a professional, after all.

The bullets only barely got through the stealth suit, so even a normal person would have probably survived them, but it hurts all the same. Still, when Steve closes his eyes, it’s not twisted hatred he sees on the Soldier’s face. It’s abject terror, when he was caught under that beam and saw Steve coming for him. How desperately he struggled, how confused he looked when Steve lifted the beam instead—right before the floor gave under the both of them, a six hundred feet drop into the water.

Killing a helpless enemy isn’t what Captain America _does._ It’s not what Steve Rogers does either, at that.

So he pulled the Soldier out of the river. And he stuffed him in the trunk of Sam’s car, and they drove to Fury’s hideout, and now the Soldier’s lying unconscious in a tiny cell and Steve—well, Steve is taking a goddamn shower.

He dries himself and patches himself up quick, puts on whatever civvies he had in his go bag, then checks his phone. When he goes back to the warehouse, he finds Sam sitting near the old metal press, his wings spread out on the floor in front of him like the silver skeleton of some strange, broken bird.

“A few missing pieces,” he says when Steve comes in. “One or two that’ll be a problem. Still, could’ve been worse. How are we doing?”

“Okay so far. Nat’s getting ready for Capitol Hill.”

Sam nods. Then, after a few seconds: “So, about our guest…”

“I couldn’t let him drown, Sam,” Steve says before he can finish.

“I,” Sam says, getting up, “didn’t say that. But now we’ve gotta deal with him. Ever taken prisoners before? Like in World War II?”

“Some,” Steve says, trying not to think about how they had to kill most of them in the end. “A lot of them actually killed themselves. HYDRA’s big on cyanide pills.”

Somehow the Soldier doesn’t seem like the type, though. Steve isn’t sure why. Something tells him the Soldier will have been trained to resist torture, without the saving grace of a quick death. Or he just doesn’t feel like dying for HYDRA—but Steve wouldn’t bet on that one.

“Wouldn’t he have done that already if that was the plan?” Sam asks.

“Yeah, he would have.” And that settles it, really. Steve lifts his go bag. “First thing we’ll need is for him to change.”

Sam nods grimly. He doesn’t need to ask why; Steve’s already removed the Soldier’s weapons before throwing him into the trunk, but the Kevlar armor could be hiding more. They’ve got mag cuffs too, which will take care of the metal arm, but the changing of clothes needs to happen _before_ that.

“Think he’ll do it if we just say please?” Sam asks as they walk to the cell.

“He can be reasoned with,” Steve says, with a lot of aplomb for a man who completely failed to reason with the Soldier on the helicarrier. When Sam gives him a look conveying exactly that, he amends, “I mean he’ll realize there’s no point fighting us. He has a dislocated shoulder. I’m stronger than him, and you’ll be keeping point.”

“With an icer,” Sam points out.

“He doesn’t need to _know_ it’s non-lethal.”

“Right.” Sam cocks his gun as they get to the door. “Showtime, then.”

The Soldier is sitting awkwardly on the steel bench when they open the door, nursing his shoulder. His hair is still wet from the river. Even without weapons, even without his mask and goggles, he looks about ten times more threatening as any of the STRIKE team guys. It’s the thick black Kevlar buckled around him, the huge boots on his feet. Or maybe the completely blank look on his face. HYDRA’s best weapon apparently doesn’t show any emotion if he can help it.

His clear eyes track Steve as he enters the cell, jump briefly to Sam and dismiss him immediately as a nonfactor, flicking back to Steve. He eyes the bag Steve’s holding. He doesn’t say anything.

“Alexander Pierce is dead,” Steve says without preamble. “Most HYDRA heads are being killed or captured all over the country. It’s over. Do you understand?”

The Soldier slowly nods.

“Right. You can expect decent treatment here. I only ask for decent behavior in return." He lets that sink in, then goes on to say:

[1]

The Soldier pops the first strap of his jacket by way of an answer. He moves with a deliberate economy of movement that fascinates Steve despite himself. Like he’s calculating the best trajectory for his hand to go to his jacket, just as he calculates a bullet’s trajectory into a target’s head.

When the Soldier’s done with all the straps, he slowly, carefully peels off his jacket until he can drop it to the floor. He’s wearing a black underarmor shirt underneath, padded and reinforced too; he won’t be able to take that off one-handed, though. Steve is about to offer to cut it off when the Soldier turns, angles himself against the wall and forces his shoulder back into place with a sudden jerk and an agonizing crunch.

“ _What_ ,” Steve hears Sam say under his breath.

Steve’s seen what the Soldier could do in the field, the hits he could take—but the calculated, soundless way this just happened rattles him. HYDRA can breed fanatical bastards, people who’ll happily suffer and die for the cause, but they usually look triumphant, defiant when they hurt; there’s that crazed gleam in their eyes, and they don’t stay so silent either.

Very unlike the Soldier. He’s paled, and he swallows convulsively once, but that’s all.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Steve says eventually.

The Soldier goes utterly still like a wary cat, eyeing him. It’s like he’s—dreading something? Steve’s can’t imagine what, or why. Maybe he’s not reading that reaction right, or maybe the Soldier’s just very hard to read. Probably both.

“But I guess that works,” he goes on. He wants to get this over with so they can all get some rest.

The Soldier unfreezes, grabs the back of his shirt and tugs it off in one go, even though that can’t be as easy as he makes it look—just because his shoulder’s functional now doesn’t mean it still doesn’t hurt like hell. When he drops it off, Sam lets out another soft sound.

[2]

“Sam,” Steve says quietly.

“ _No_ , Steve. What the hell is this?” Sam snaps at the Soldier. “Walking out there with a big gun, that get you going?”

 _“Sam_ ,” Steve insists. He’s sickened too, but—“This doesn’t change anything. We stick to the plan. Take those off,” he tells the Soldier sharply. “Then keep going.”

The Soldier carefully undoes the clamps and puts the chain away, then takes out the piercings. He bends down to unlace his boots, moving rigidly. Next to Steve, Sam is still radiating disgust, and Steve—Steve isn’t feeling much better, his brain replaying memories of his fights with the Soldier in a new, slimy light. Strange, really, that this should disturb him more than the violence itself, but it does.

Strange, too, because the Soldier looked mostly tense, hyperfocused in battle; again, not the unhinged look of a fanatic enjoying brutality a bit too much. He certainly isn’t gloating now, unlacing his boots, keeping his eyes down. Still, what other explanation could there be for those piercings? And the chain, the clamps—they’d pull, they’d hurt; they mean the Soldier’s getting off on his own pain, too.

Why is Steve feeling _betrayed_? That, more than anything else, makes no sense at all. He just assumed the Soldier was fighting clean, so to speak.

One boot gets tugged off, then another. The Soldier’s wearing thick black socks. He slips one off—his foot underneath is pale and veined, rough and bony, strangely vulnerable. It’s when he peels off his second sock that something silver catches Steve’s eye, again.

[3]

“What does that mean? How is that standard?”

No answer. Steve lets go of the Soldier’s ankle. He’s starting to get a very, very bad feeling about this. Piercings were bad enough, but this—can’t walk right, can’t run right. On a mission? Could be lethal. He remembers the Soldier’s swagger in the field. Like someone trying to avoid putting too much weight flat on their soles. Then he remembers the Soldier falling from the bridge onto that car, all that body mass slamming onto his pierced feet.

“Keep going,” he says.

The Soldier gets up, balancing himself carefully. Maybe his thick boots helped with the pain some, but barefoot on a cement floor—it clearly hurts like hell. Steve glances briefly at Sam, who looks like his thoughts are on the same unpleasant track.

The Soldier unbuttons and unzips his tac pants, pushes them down, and that’s when Steve realizes just how deeply _wrong_ things are.

He’s so transfixed with shock that he doesn’t register what he’s seen until the Soldier’s sat down again on the bench, closing his legs together. Then he feels the absurd need to make sure, because—because that can’t have been what he thinks. Before he says anything, though, he glances at Sam again. Up until now, and despite the unexpectedly disturbing turn this had taken, Sam had remained on high alert; but now his gun is wavering, and Steve himself feels off-balance, his earlier queasiness circling back to a much more deeply rooted nausea.

The Soldier is watching them both warily. His body looks very pale, almost fragile, stripped from his sturdy black clothes. He’s hairless, having obviously been waxed as well as pierced.

[4]

Steve feels ice cold. It _is_ a cock cage, steel restraints severely locking him up. He can’t see an opening mechanism; it looks like it’s been simply welded into place. But that’s not the bad part. There are _more_ piercings—a ladder of them, five rings all along the Soldier’s shaft, _through_ his shaft, locked into the cage itself.

Steve reaches out blindly for Sam’s gun and lowers it till it’s pointing at the ground. He tells the Soldier, “Wait here.”

Then he takes Sam out of the cell and closes the door behind them. Sam, when upset, tends to move around more as if physically looking for a solution. Steve tends to go still, and that’s what he does now, standing there while Sam paces the ground in tight, narrow circles. Eventually he comes back to stand in front of Steve.

“It could still be voluntary on his part. Extreme sexual stuff.”

“Do you actually believe that?” Steve says quietly.

Sam swears. “No. Of course I don’t. Certainly not in combination with those—things in his feet.”

“I don’t understand,” Steve says. “He had his own team out there, his own weapons. Doesn’t _look_ like he was coerced.”

But as he speaks he starts seeing everything in a different light, again. This time the Soldier isn’t a pervert getting his rocks off in the field: he’s a chained animal. The team supplying him with weapons—maybe they were also there to keep an eye on him. And the way he fought, this relentless, almost obsessive focus. Not HYDRA idealism, not blind fanaticism. Clean fighting indeed. Clean as fear, as pain.

“What was that shit Rumlow started saying at the end?” Sam murmurs. “Order through pain.”

“Why would he obey?” That’s what Steve is stuck on. “He’s fast. Strong. If they were doing all this to him—why not just run away as soon as they let him out in the field?”

Sam’s shaking his head. “There’s plenty of ways to keep people on a leash.”

“Well—he’s off the leash now. He’s with us.” What he says next feels inevitable. “We can’t leave him like this.”

Sam rubs a hand over his mouth, his chin. “This is a warehouse,” he says. “Technically.”

With lots of tools lying around. Yeah. Steve feels resolve settle heavily in his stomach, along with the sick feeling still roiling down there. “We can’t leave him like this,” he repeats.

Sam nods. Then he says, “I hate to be the one to say it, but—”

“He still tried very hard to kill us. I know.” Steve takes a breath. “We’ll cuff him.”

“We could try without. I’m okay to try.”

“ _I’m_ not,” Steve says. “Helping him one’s thing. Your life’s another. You shouldn’t get close to him if he isn’t restrained. And I’m going to need your help in there, to take those all off.”

Sam nods, again. He looks about as sick as Steve feels.

“Okay,” he says eventually, with a brief glance towards the cell. “Let’s— _what the hell is he doing?”_

Steve follows his gaze and freezes. Through the small window in the reinforced door, he can see that the Soldier got on all fours, turning his back to them. He’s stark naked, of course—the way they left him.

There’s something metal in his ass, a plug of some sort.

“ _God_ ,” Sam says faintly. He’s looking all around him, helpless and furious, like he’s looking for an exit from this entire situation. “What kind of sick _bastards…”_

Steve can’t even tell if he’s more shocked by the plug himself—the fact that they’d sent him out in the field wearing _that_ —or the Soldier’s position.

_Standard mission protocol._

He opens the door; the Soldier flinches, but doesn’t otherwise move.

“Hey,” Steve says in the calmest, most no-nonsense tone he can manage. “No need for that. Get back on the bench.”

Then he closes the door and leads Sam away. They need to regroup, and they need a breather.

The Asset’s sitting back on the bench as ordered. The metal is cold under his bare ass and thighs. Fear’s digging a hole in his stomach. The wait is always the worst part.

He can’t remember ever being a prisoner before, but HYDRA put him through a lot of torture training, so he always knew capture was a possibility. When the pain starts, he knows his orders: endure, endure, and die. The fact that HYDRA’s finished—assuming Rogers did not lie—doesn’t change anything. Even if he were certain that collaboration might mean survival, he knows nothing of value. At some point during the fight, he heard someone say on coms that the Widow had stolen most of HYDRA’s files and was about to release them to the public. Not much else the Soldier might add to that.

Yet Rogers pulled him out of the river. It wasn’t impulse; he also lifted that beam off the Asset. He wanted him alive from the start.

Of course, the Asset’s living body has a variety of purposes. But Rogers and Wilson’s reactions have been all wrong so far. They were disgusted by his piercings, confused by the hobblers in his feet. Rogers just made it clear presenting on all fours had been a mistake. Obviously, nothing about the Asset matches what _they_ would have done, had they been in charge. There’s a very real possibility that they will now fix the Soldier to comply with their own standards.

He waits. His body’s cold to the bone from the river, meaning he hasn’t been unconscious long. Being naked doesn’t help with the chill. The cell’s completely bare, cement and metal with a drain in the middle of the floor. Pain pulses in the hobblers; he’s not putting weight on them now, but they always hurt, phantom aches from all the running and jumping he’s done. He tries not to think about it.

HYDRA taught him to walk upright again, to run and leap despite the pain. _Yes, it hurts. That’s the point. What if you get hurt in the field? Would that be enough to make you drop the mission? You’re here to learn how to ignore it and get the job done. Now get up and walk up and down the hallway._

Yes, he learned to walk again. They beat him every time he fell. Once he stopped falling, they kept correcting him until he stopped wobbling, until he could walk as though nothing was wrong. Back in top shape. Better, as it turned out; he was more efficient in his missions afterwards, a constant reminder with every step to stay focused, stay sharp, ignore every distraction, get it done for a chance to rest, to stop. They did know how to hone him, how to push him even further. Order through pain.

But this isn’t HYDRA anymore. He’s flying blind.

He tries again to figure out what they might want him for. He already ruled out information and sexual use. Is it possible they want him to fight for them? It seems like a lot of effort when they have assets of their own—plus Rogers isn’t that pragmatic. He would not want a HYDRA weapon.

The Soldier feels cold. Only one option left, and it’s medical experimentation.

HYDRA’s scientists always wanted more of him than his handlers were prepared to give. Once or twice when the experiments went on for too long, or went too deep, the Asset’s handlers had to forcefully retrieve him, wheeling him out of the labs followed by men in white coats loudly pontificating on scientific advancement. The Asset doesn’t know anything of value, but his body is valuable in and of itself. This he’s always known. And he’s always known, too, that he might end up on the slab when they retired him; he has worked very hard for that to happen as late as possible. Now it looks like the time has come.

And when the cell door opens again, he knows he’s right.

“I’m afraid we can’t trust you just yet, so we’re going to need you to put these on,” Steve says, holding out the mag cuffs. “And then we’re going to take all this off you. We’re not leaving you like this.”

Sam crouches on the floor and unwraps the oily rag in which he’s carrying the tools. The Soldier, sitting on the bench again with his hands on his knees, looks at the array of pincers, cutting implements, saws and wires spreading out on the concrete. He doesn’t react one way or another.

“Get up, please,” Steve says after another beat of motionless silence. “Turn around.”

Slowly, heavily, the Soldier does, arms folding in his back automatically. He’s used to being put in mag cuffs. Every second Steve spends in his presence yields more and more proof that he was a prisoner to HYDRA—a tool, just like the tools in Sam’s rags; but a human tool, twisted and tortured into this strange, eerie blankness.

Steve clamps the mag cuffs into place. From up close, the metal arm looks horribly fused into the flesh. They probably shouldn’t try taking _that_ one off of him for now.

“Okay,” Steve says. “We’re going to try and keep this as clinical as possible. All right? I promise you’ll feel better afterwards.”

The Soldier says nothing. It’s hard to decipher what he thinks about the situation he’s in.

“We’re going to start with the—plug,” Steve says, his voice faltering for a moment. “Can you…”

He was about to ask the Soldier to lean forward against the wall, but of course he can’t do that with his arms bound in his back. The Soldier solves the issue for him by getting to his knees, bringing his face to the floor. Again, like it’s routine.

“Okay,” Steve says. This _isn’t_ how he pictured the post-battle going down.

It’s all right. He has to help this man. By the look of things, no one has in a very long time.

Steve glances at Sam, who nods grimly. Then he leans forward and puts his left hand on the Soldier’s tailbone to steady him, grabs the plug with his other hand and pulls. It resists.

He firms his grip to try again.

[5]

The Soldier cuts back his scream instantly; Steve's already stopped pulling, startled.

“Shit,” he says. Should he have kept going? He’s never done this before—how much is this supposed to hurt on the way _out?_

“Don’t—” the Soldier pants.

Steve leaps onto this unexpected contribution. “What was that?”

The Soldier’s frozen like he regrets saying anything; but he has to go on now. “Don’t… please don’t rip them out of me.” Another gulping breath. “Please use the tools. I’d rather you use the tools.”

“Hang on just a _minute_ ,” Sam says quickly. “No one’s ripping anything out of anyone. We _are_ going to use the tools. On that messed-up shit,” he adds. “Not on _you_.”

The Soldier says nothing, still face down, extremely tense. Steve looks at the plug. Why isn’t this thing coming out of him?

With a deep sense of embarrassment, he actually pushes his fingers inside the Soldier’s ass, past his stretched rim, feeling along the smooth gleaming metal.

“Steve,” Sam protests, “what are you—”

“Hang on,” Steve says. It’s so much tighter and hotter inside than he expected. He can feel himself blush furiously, but he keeps going; the Soldier’s breathing hard again. “I think…”

Beneath his fingers, the smooth plug flares much, _much_ wider.

“Christ.” He pulls his fingers out. “It’s not just a plug. It’s a—” He mimes with his hand, splaying his fingers open. “It’s stuck inside of him.”

_“Jesus.”_

“There should be…” Steve looks at it closely, and yeah. In the middle of it, a small keyhole. “Do you still have that SHIELD omnikey?”

Sam wordlessly passes it over and Steve inserts it inside. It’s not a complicated lock; couldn’t be, since it’s so tiny. He turns it, feels the thing inside close up like a steel flower, and a second later it’s slipping out, slick and deceptively small.

The Asset couldn’t help begging. If pulled out forcefully, the lock was meant to rip out most of his organs with it. He’s not sure he would survive that. He’s afraid he _would._

Now he’s open, and he braces for what usually comes next. Prepping him for a lab doesn’t mean not using him, and he’s all too aware of how exposed he is, face down like this. _Like a bitch in heat_ , Rumlow used to sneer.

The Asset knows he cannot behave in a blameless way. When he presents, he’s being a spineless coward. But when he _doesn’t_ present, he’s being defiant. The second option gets him beaten harder. Dignity doesn’t factor that much against physical injury, especially since it is his own responsibility to stay operational.

Rogers doesn’t beat him. Rogers doesn’t put his fingers inside him again. He rolls the Asset to his side and tells Wilson something that makes him leave the room. When the door locks behind him, he tries to meet the Asset’s gaze.

“How are you doing?”

The Asset knows how he’s supposed to answer that kind of question. “All clear.”

He doesn’t want to give the all clear. He doesn’t want them keep going. When they’ve stripped him bare of piercings—back to factory settings, his body a clean slate again—he’ll be sent to a lab, and this time he won’t be coming back out.

But he cannot ask for a break when there isn’t a reason for one; he cannot seem to be resisting even in the slightest way. This isn’t HYDRA, he reminds himself. This is worse.

“Okay,” Rogers says. “Listen. I’m going to do your feet right now, while Sam’s away. _He_ doesn’t heal fast. He might not understand. I don’t want him to see this.”

The Asset closes his eyes and nods. He doesn’t reopen them when Rogers takes one of his feet in his lap and begins to unscrew the hobbler’s ball. The small motions are a little painful; then they stop, and something comes and closes solidly around the protruding stem.

“Take a deep breath,” Rogers says.

He doesn’t hesitate; he just rips it out. The bone-deep pain rockets up the Asset’s whole body and explodes behind his eyelids. He arches, arms straining so much in the cuffs they let out a terrible grinding sound; then he’s lying on the ground, eyes open. Did he scream? He’s not sure.

“—okay,” Rogers is saying, sounding strangely far. “You’re okay.”

The Asset’s vision swims again, darkness threatening to envelop him whole. Rogers is unscrewing the second ball. It’s going to happen again, and there isn’t anything he can do to stop it.

He thinks he struggles, tries futilely to push himself away, but Rogers’ grip is like steel and then it’s the enormous wave of pain again, bleaching his brain so he can’t even think.

_Don’t rip them out of me_ , the Soldier begged, and yet it’s exactly what Steve did. But—he throws the bloodied steel stem away—this time there wasn’t another way. And he’s had things stuck in him before; he knows it’s better to take them out quick, let his body sort itself out.

He still can’t wrap his head around the sheer perversity of those things. He remembers chasing the Soldier on rooftops, how he had to push himself to keep up. Even though pain must have been bursting through the Soldier’s body with every step.

The Soldier’s gasping for breath now, the shock ebbing. Dark blood slowly pools out of his feet. Steve lets go of his ankle and rips a piece off the hem of his shirt, a long band of stretchy blue fabric that he tears in half.

The door creaks behind him.

“What did you— _shit,”_ Sam says, taking it all in.

Steve doesn’t look up, folding up the cloth. “Did you find water?”

God bless Sam, he doesn’t waste time talking while someone’s in need of help. He might yell at Steve later, but for now he crouches next to him and holds out a bottle.

Steve helps the Soldier up so he can sit back on the bench; he’s been humiliated enough for today. Still cuffed, he leans back against the wall, in a daze, focusing his eyes only when Steve grabs one of his feet. He tenses like hell when Steve pours water all over it.

“It’s just water,” Steve says. “It shouldn’t hurt.”

The Soldier watches him wash his feet. His naked body is gleaming with sweat, shaking with aftershocks; he’s only now beginning to get his breathing under control. He looks lost, and actually frowns a little when Steve picks up his makeshift bandages and starts dressing one of his feet.

“We’ll find actual bandages later,” Steve says. “This is just for now.”

The Soldier doesn’t look any less confused. Steve, leaving Sam to finish bandaging his other foot, grabs the second water bottle and gets up. “Here. Are you—thirsty?”

Now the Soldier is looking at him like he’s grown a second head. But after a few seconds, he very tentatively nods, and stares as Steve twists off the cap and presses the bottle to his lips.

He drinks nearly all of it. Then Steve catches his longing look when the bottle’s removed, and lets him drain the rest. The Soldier swallows, blinks a few times, and Steve realizes he’s crying, tears rolling silently down his face.

Steve almost asks _Are you okay?_ like a complete moron. The Soldier has about a dozen reasons to cry, and the least Steve can do is not draw attention to it. But he’s feeling sick again, because something tells him the Soldier’s crying not because of pain or shock, but because he’s been offered water.

“Any questions?” he asks instead, when Sam’s done.

The Soldiers swallows again. He seems to debate against himself for a while before speaking.

[6]

Steve exchanges a glance with Sam. It’s Sam who says, “Do you mean those things in your feet? Are you asking if we’re planning on putting in something _else_ instead?”

The Soldier nods.

It kills Steve, that he’d just _ask—_ not even in fear, not even to protest. Just to know, accepting that it wouldn’t change anything. This complete resignation terrifies him on a gut level: it means that the Soldier would let them do just about anything to him, that they can’t count on him to tell them when they’re fucking up; it means they’ve probably already fucked up in about a dozen different ways.

“We’re not replacing them with anything,” Sam says. He’s doing a great job hiding his rage. “Your feet will heal, and that’s it. You get that? You believe that?”

The Soldier nods again, but it looks like he’s on autopilot. His eyes flick down. Steve’s shirt rode up when he tore it up, and one of his patched-up bullet wounds is clearly visible. He quickly tugs it down again and the Soldier averts his eyes.

They’re not planning on putting in new hobblers. That means he _is_ being decommissioned. A clean slate, nothing in the way, just like the scientists kept asking. And why would he expect anything else? Retraining him to serve new masters would have been too time-consuming, too expensive. He’s broken anyway, body and brain misfiring alike. Rogers is literally still bleeding from Soldier-inflicted wounds. No, it’s the lab for him.

He’s surprisingly distressed by the thought. For a wild moment he even thinks of trying to escape. But—to where? And he can’t, anyway. He’s cuffed, hurt, exhausted, and Rogers could match him even on a good day. No one is waiting for him outside, no one who wouldn’t want to recapture him and sell him anew. Wherever he goes, he will end up right where he started: in a cell, on a metal slab, watching the ceiling through a reddening haze.

He wishes they wouldn’t have given him water. It hurt like acid; his tears did, too.

Wilson’s getting the tools. Rogers’ looking determined again.

“All right,” he says. He grabs the Asset’s shoulder, moves his hand up to the side of the Asset’s face, makes the Asset look in his eyes. “Final step. We’ll try and make it quick, okay? Just grit your teeth. Call out if you need a break.”

Rumlow did that too. Offered him breaks, jokingly. The Asset knew better than to ask for one. He preferred the technicians who didn’t pretend, who treated him like a piece of machinery.

He nods. Rogers nods too, grimly. “Okay, Sam—give me the pincers.”

They put the Asset on his back on the bench, spread his legs, and order him not to move.

The cock cage snaps easily enough. But there are the rings, embedded deep. The flesh’s long since healed around them, and yet they have to come out. All of them.

“Can’t cut them off with pincers,” Wilson’s saying. “Can’t saw them off…”

“We can use a wire. File them open. Tug them out.”

The Asset can feel the wire slipping—with difficulty—between his cock and the first ring. When the back-and-forth starts, he stares hard at the ceiling. The wire bites into his skin, but he doesn’t say anything; as it files a groove into the metal, it hurts less and less. Then he feels the ring snap, and braces himself.

He’s trying not to make a sound, but he’s arching back on the bench as the ring slowly slides out of the hypersensitive flesh; stars burst in his vision and he jerks away when the pain starts getting so intense, it’s like his nerves are catching fire. He feels Rogers’ big hands grab his thighs, force his legs to stay open. When they start on the second ring, the Asset can’t stay silent anymore—his body has been pushed too hard for too long, and his mind is weak with fear; his breathing starts sounding like gasps, like sobs, and he lets out keening noises when the metal starts sliding inside his cock again.

He’s fighting in earnest—he’ll be punished, but he can’t stop, and Rogers is firmly holding him down anyway. The metal arm is whirring and grinding against the cuffs. At least the hobblers were ripped out quick. This is taking so long, so long that he forgets there was ever anything else, so long that he forgets it’s going to stop eventually.

The Soldier’s curled in a corner of the room, still gasping for breath. His eyes are open but unseeing. Blood’s leaking out of his feet and ass and cock, slowly going towards the drain.

All the metal they’ve pulled out of his body is in a pile next to him, along with his clothes. He’s entirely bare, now.

Sam’s sitting prone next to Steve, covered in sweat. He looks just about as sick as Steve feels.

“Steve—” He rubs his face like he’s trying to wake up. “Why did we do this?”

The same question’s been creeping up on Steve. He repeats what they told themselves twenty minutes ago. “We couldn’t leave him like this.”

It rings hollow now. And yet they couldn’t, they _couldn’t._ Who the hell discovers a prisoner wearing torture implements and tells him he’ll have to keep those in for now?

“I need to,” Sam says, then gets up without finishing his sentence. He casts a disgusted look at the pile of gleaming piercings, swipes them into the rag that held the tools, then leaves the room.

When the door closes behind him, Steve’s alone with the Soldier, still shivering near the drain. Steve doesn’t think at all about what he’s doing, just goes to him, takes his shirt off entirely and soaks it with water.

The Soldier’s vacant eyes don’t focus as Steve cleans him, wiping off blood and sweat. They do when Steve unlocks the mag cuffs.

He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes track Steve as he brings the duffel bag close to zip it open. He pulls out the clothes he brought. “Do you need help to put these on?”

The Soldier’s staring at him.

“I want to help you. In case that wasn’t clear.” Steve briefly shuts his eyes. “I think we haven’t made that clear at all, actually.”

It felt like necessary work, what they did to him. But to the Soldier—captive, cuffed, helpless—there would have been no difference with the day he was hobbled and pierced; none at all.

The Soldier very cautiously sits up. He looks at the open mag cuffs on the floor, then at the clothes in the duffel bag. Obediently, he pulls a shirt out and slips it on, then grabs a pair of pants and pushes to his feet—

“Jesus—no—hold on,” Steve says, quickly standing up.

He lets the Soldier lean on him while he puts his pants on. Then he helps him sit back down right there, on the floor. Even crossing the tiny cell to go sit on the bench would seem like too much.

There was a blanket in the duffel bag, too. Steve gets it out and drapes it over his shoulders. “I’m sorry we hurt you,” he says. “Which sounds dumb. It’s not like we didn’t realize it hurt. But we thought it meant something good for you. Like when you popped your shoulder back in.

[7]

He’s not sure why he’s talking like he would to a child. Maybe it’s because the Soldier _seems_ like a child, confused and lost, helpless, surrounded by people making mysterious decisions for mysterious reasons.

The Soldier doesn’t touch the blanket, just lets it sit there. Eventually he says, “I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?”

“Aren’t you sending me to a lab?”

“A lab?” Steve waits for a few seconds, but the Soldier seems to think his question’s self-explanatory. Steve decides to just answer it for now. Maybe it’ll make sense down the line. “No. We don’t even have a lab.”

The Soldier doesn’t look like he’s sure he believes him. “Then why take out the hobblers?”

Steve blinks. “Because… they looked like they hurt.”

Before the Soldier can answer that, a terrible grinding noise resonates through the door. He glances up fearfully and Steve says, “Don’t worry. I think that’s the hydraulic press.”

Seconds later, Sam returns. “Sorry for the noise. Didn’t feel like just throwing those in the garbage.”

Steve gives him a little smile. He does like the idea of those evil things ground into metallic dust.

Sam glances at the mag cuffs on the side. Then he looks at the Soldier. “You going to attack us some more?”

Asking a normal operative that question would be stupid. But the Soldier seems to find it entirely reasonable. “No. The mission’s over.”

“All right, then.” Sam hefts a bag: he’s brought back more water, some food, another blanket, an actual pillow. “Painkillers work on you?”

The Soldier looks thoroughly confused. “I… don’t know.”

Sam sighs. “No, you wouldn’t.” He cracks the bottle open. “Well, try them on for size.”

“Four times the dosage,” Steve adds. “That’s what works for me.”

The Soldier takes the pills and washes them down with a gulp of water, obediently. Then he glances between them both. “I still don’t understand.”

“Yeah, looks like we’ve all got some catching up to do,” Sam answers.

“We’re going to let your body heal,” Steve says. “That’s all that’s going to happen for now. And we’re sorry we hurt you.”

“And we won’t be hurting you again,” Sam adds.

The Soldier looks at his feet. They’ve stopped bleeding under the makeshift bandages. He moves his toes a little.

“Do you understand?” Steve asks.

The Soldier’s shoulders seem less tense, a sign that the painkillers are kicking in. He tugs the blanket around him. “No,” he says. “But. Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it, please tell us what you thought! :D
> 
> \------  
>   
> Descriptive text for the images that had dialogue:
> 
> [1] A bare concrete cell with a fold-out bench, a drain on the floor and a barred door. The Soldier is sitting on the bench, nursing his right arm. Standing in front of him are Steve, with a bag at his feet, and Sam, aiming at the Soldier with an icer gun. Steve is saying: “We need you to undress. Can you do that yourself, or do we have to restrain you?” [back]
> 
> [2] The Soldier taking off his shirt, revealing a bruised chest and pierced nipples, with a chain connecting them. Sam, still aiming at him, looks appalled. He says: “Okay, this is officially the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen. Do you get off on it, is that it?” [back]
> 
> [3] The Soldier’s foot, his sock just slipping off. A small metal ball is protruding from the sole of his foot. Steve says: “Stop,” but the Soldier has already put his foot back down on the ground. Steve asks, “What’s that? Underneath?” The Soldier holds his knee to his chest to show Steve and Sam the underside of his foot. Sam, still aiming at him, says, “What the hell?” Steve, hands on his hips, says, I don’t get it.” He grabs the Soldier’s foot and says, “Enjoying pain’s one thing. These just look dangerous to wear. Why do you wear this?” The Soldier stares at Steve with what looks like anger. Then he averts his eyes and says, “Standard mission protocol.” [back]
> 
> [4] The Soldier sitting on the bench, naked, his legs pressed together, his hands pressed between his legs. At the forefront, Steve still has his hands on his hips, Sam is still aiming a gun at him. Steve is looking empathetic and says: “It’s okay. We won’t hurt you.” The Soldier looks at the gun trained on him. Then he spreads his legs, revealing a cock cage with several rings digging into his shaft. Sam says, “JESUS CHRIST.” [back]
> 
> [5] The Soldier is kneeling face-down on the floor, his hands bound in his back by the mag cuffs. Steve, only visible from the waist down, is steadying him and getting ready to pull the plug out of his ass. Steve says: “Okay, this might hurt a bit.” The Soldier has a flashback to Rumlow telling him the same thing as he inserts the rings into his cock. Rumlow adds, “But you’ll be better afterwards.” Back to the present, Steve pulls and the Soldier arches back, looking shocked and screaming in pain. [back]
> 
> [6] The naked Soldier is sitting cross-legged on the bench. He looks down at his bloodied and bandaged feet with a weary expression; his caged cock can also be seen from above. He asks, without looking up, “Are you going to replace them with anything?” Steve and Sam look downright horrified. Steve asks, “Replace them?” [back]
> 
> [7] The Soldier, now fully dressed in dark clothes with a grey blanket over his shoulders, is sitting on the ground against the wall with his legs stretched out. He’s rubbing his right wrist with his left hand. The open mag cuffs have been left on the floor next to him. Smudged blood is still leading into the drain. Next to him, Steve is sitting cross-legged with his forearms resting on his legs. He’s bare-chested and weary-looking. The Soldier is looking sideways at him. Steve is saying, “Now I’m not so sure.” [back]


End file.
